


Exposure

by shark-from-the-park (inigosolo)



Category: Chernobyl (TV 2019)
Genre: Decontamination Showers, First Time, Legabina, M/M, Mild humiliation kink, NSFW, No beta we die like comrades, Present Tense, Valoris, a consistant tone? i don't know her, bickering husbands to lovers, fuckity hi, i'm trash, inconvenient erections, smutty and sad, three orgasms for the price of one, turns up late to fandom bearing porn, valoris forever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-27 21:24:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20955137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inigosolo/pseuds/shark-from-the-park
Summary: Valery and Boris have to undergo an embarrassing ordeal.An awkward situation arises, as do some buried feelings.





	Exposure

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Written for the Naked Decontamination Showers prompt in the beautiful Valoris tag on tumblr by @raul-eduardo-esparza. Dedicated to @casperthefriendlylittlefan for the encouragement and to @elenatria for being an amazing ship captain and all round good egg, and to everyone else in the tag for being really nice. I woke up at 4am one night and started to write this while still half asleep. I have never written in the present tense before so I hope it came out OK. All comments, questions and discussion adored.
> 
> Obviously this is written about the creations of Craig Mazin, Jared Harris and Stellan Skarsgard. No offence intended to anyone. That said, you have seen the NSFW and Valoris tags, so if you don’t like, don’t read. Also, I am quite sure that in reality decontamination showers are the least arousing things imaginable.

*****

“Hold still Valery!” Boris growls from behind him as he scrubs at Valery’s back with a rough, scratchy washcloth that will have to be buried deep deep underground after this.

Valery makes a little sound of complaint or protest, and it’s lost in the rushing spray of cool water.

Boris’s hand is rough – as it should be – as he scrubs at the juncture of Valery’s neck and shoulders, rubbing the course material and the harsh-smelling disinfectant soap up the nape of Valery’s neck and into the thick tendrils of his sopping wet hair.

“I can wash my own hair!” Hisses Valery furiously.

“Do it then! Instead of just standing there like a cabbage!” Bellows Boris, at full force. 

One of the young, earnest-faced soldiers standing around ready to assist them with their decontamination lets out a strangled bark of a laugh, which he immediately smothers when Boris Shcherbina turns his glare on him. 

Even naked, even cold and soaking wet and shivering, Boris is formidable. 

That is half of Valery’s problem. 

He himself has never been formidable in all his life. Even fully clothed and in the best of circumstances, the most he can manage is churlish or stroppy.

The reality of _r__ight now_, naked in public in broad daylight, with the eyes of dozens of younger men on him, and all of his imperfections on display, would already be quite embarrassing enough for Valery Legasov. But Boris’s presence beside him, tall and broad and intimidating, in better physical shape than Valery despite their age difference, and with a long thick cock hanging perfectly benign between his somehow still strapping thighs, is what makes this easily the most humiliating moment of Valery’s humiliation-prone life. 

He is boiling with it, despite the chilly water, the humiliation running hot through his veins, making him flush all over, making him snap and sulk and petulantly refuse to cooperate with Boris, who is after all only trying to get this ordeal over with as soon as possible. 

At least ten minutes, they’re supposed to stay in this allegedly ‘lukewarm’ water for. 

Valery feels like he’s been in this situation for ten years already. 

The hot sting of humiliation along with the burning brand that is Boris’s presence is making Valery’s cock swell.

He hates everyone and everything and himself most of all. 

No. He hates Boris most of all. For somehow looking even better out of his well-cut clothes than he did in them. 

Incandescent with rage, he brandishes his own washcloth fiercely at Boris. He needs to get this part over with as quickly as possible, before the swelling in his cock develops into an obvious erection. 

“Turn around!” He clucks impatiently at Boris, and the big man gives him a sardonic, long-suffering expression before doing so.

_This was a mistake_, Valery realises at once, staring at the perfect slope of Boris’s broad back through his wet and still soapy glasses, as it curves down into the shapely buttocks which should have belonged to a much younger man.

_Why does he look like this,_ Valery thinks testily, as he brings the cloth down to scrub vigorously over Boris’s spine and flanks, then having to stretch up ridiculously to reach the taller man’s shoulder blades. The cloth in Valery’s hand slips as he gives one particularly irritated rub, and his fingertips slide firmly over the skin of Boris’s meaty shoulder.

Valery jolts as though he has been electrocuted. Boris jolts too, the small quantity of excess flesh around his hips and buttocks jiggling as he does so.

Valery drops his washcloth like a fool, bends to retrieve it, and gets an even closer look at Boris’s pleasing backside for his trouble. By the time he straightens up again, he is fully erect and he hates himself more than ever. 

He swiftly hunches over and positions himself with his back to Boris, with Boris’s larger form hopefully shielding him from the eyes of the watching soldiers.

_Go away, go away, go away,_ he thinks, even as he feels Boris staring down at his naked back. 

“You’re behaving like a child, Valera…” Boris grumbles reproachfully. His gruff voice, coupled with the informal address, only add to Valery’s predicament. 

“Just give me a moment…” Valery grimaces, hoping desperately that his voice doesn’t give away the real source of his discomfort.

Boris tuts and scrubs at him again, harsh and impersonal over the muscles in Valery’s upper arms, down to his lower back, accidentally brushing the side of one large hand against the top of Valery’s plump buttock on the way down.

Valery makes a certain kind of sound.

He can _feel_ Boris go very still behind him. 

Tall as a giant, Boris angles his neck slightly and peers over Valery’s sloping, hunched shoulder.

“For fucks sake Valera, you’re a disaster…” Boris growls in surprised exasperation when he sees, in such an overly familiar ‘_I can’t take you anywhere’_ sort of a voice that Valery dearly wants to strike him. Dearly wants to be struck by him. Repeatedly.

_Oh, fuck. No. Don’t think about him spanking you… Not now!_

Cold water or no, Valery is dribbling pearly pre-come from the head of his erect penis in front of a great many people, and one person in particular. 

_Some people can’t get it up when they’re exposed to massive doses of radiation, but not me, oh no…_ he thinks, unhinged. _I go full on exhibitionist…_

“Hurry up then, idiot.” Boris is saying quietly behind him, and it takes an excruciatingly long time for Valery to understand what he means. 

Boris rubs the cloth slowly over Valery’s lower back and full buttocks again, his big fingers slipping slightly over soapy plump flesh.

Valery hates him so much. He hunches further in on himself, all bad posture and thick middle and flabby paunch and broad, chubby backside and pale, pale, blemished skin. He can literally feel the heat coming off Boris’s solid bulk behind him.

He closes his eyes and hopes desperately that Boris is fully concealing him from the eyes of all the young soldiers right now. He hopes desperately that Boris will expose him and pull him over his knee and…

Valery grasps himself firmly, and comes all over his hand. He bites his bottom lip so hard that he tastes blood in his mouth. 

He doesn’t make a sound. 

He trembles as the cool water washes his pulsing emissions away. 

He feels Boris’s gaze on the back of his neck, almost as good as a caress.

“For fuck’s sake, Valera.” Boris mutters again, annoyed. 

The sergeant finally checks his watch and ushers them out of the water approximately thirty seconds later. They move into the next partition, which is slightly less exposed, having a whole two and a half out of four tarpaulin walls. 

There is a bench here. Thin and scratchy cotton towels which they pull over their raw skin. Valery sinks down, shaky-legged, onto one end of the bench.

Boris is towelling himself roughly. His heavy cock is, if not erect, certainly no longer flaccid. Valery can’t help but watch as the swollen head of it disappears into the loose, clean khaki trousers Boris is now pulling on.

His mouth, absurdly, is very dry. 

Boris throws a pair of stiff, course fatigues at him, and Valery pulls them on, automatically, hiding himself from view again, shrugging into an equally scratchy khaki shirt. 

The big man is fully clothed now, except for his ridiculously bare feet on the hard ground. He is towelling his mussed silver hair with brutal, military efficiency. Valery can’t quite help but surreptitiously watch his every move. There is a kind of greed in it. 

Boris shouts at a soldier to hurry up and bring him some boots. 

A young lad hurries to comply, supplying the footwear with a deferential, “Comrade Shcherbina,” as if he hadn’t just seen the man naked.

“Go back to the trailer.” Boris tells Valery, an offhand order, and then he is gone, striding off to bark orders at someone else.

Valery once again complies, rising when a soldier has provided him with a pinching pair of boots. The same soldier, who Valery has seen milling about dozens of times but whose name he does not know (though Boris surely does), gives Valery a cigarette and lights it for him.

Valery smokes it as he walks, limping slightly in the ill-fitting boots, back to their trailer and his sanctuary. 

Sitting alone at his desk as it gets dark, he chain smokes through the pack he keeps in his top drawer. 

This is the same ratty trailer, the same ruined power plant, the same fateful wreck of a place, but the world feels different right at this moment. 

He is untethered and floating above the ground. He has been fully undone by Boris’s touch, by Boris’s body, by Boris. By his own shocking reaction to the infuriating bull of a man.

Had he known that this was what he felt?

That underneath his bone-deep irritation and exasperation with the Ukrainian there dwelled this all-consuming need?

He thinks of the first moment he ever laid eyes on Boris in person, in the meeting at the Kremlin, the slicked back, fastidious gleam of the man. He feels a bolt of heat, low in his abdomen, which he does not remember feeling at all at the time – he hadn’t felt anything but his nerves and his concerns and his need to prove himself.

Valery is a desperately lonely man who has long since accepted his lot in life. His cat and his institute are ample compensation. The half-remembered dalliances of his youth live there, firmly in the past. 

He hadn’t even known that he was starving for touch until he had felt the electric jolt of Boris’s skin. 

Now his every youthful conquest wears Boris’s annoyingly pleasant features in his mind’s eye.

In something like despair, Valery lays his head down on the cheap wood of his desk and reaches his hand guiltily into his borrowed fatigues, growing hard again from his vivid imaginings. 

He chokes down a groan as his cool hand touches heated, rapidly swelling flesh. 

He doesn’t fear Boris, somehow. He knows the other man will keep his shameful secret, knows the other man will protect him. 

He half wishes that Boris had exposed him. Gripped him hard by the neck and turned him to face the soldiers so that they could all see how embarrassingly _hard_ he was in the cold, clinical harshness of the decontamination shower. So that they could all see what sort of man he was, underneath his clothes.

Half wishes that Boris had stuck two soapy fingers inside him and opened him up for all to see the writhing, incoherent mess that Valery became then. For them all to hear the way Valery would have keened and sobbed and begged for Boris to fuck him. 

Valery strokes himself feverishly, his shaft barely free of the fatigues, concealed by the desk, but not concealed at all. 

He imagines the savage twist of Boris’s thick fingers thrusting deep inside him, imagines the shocked, repulsed, mocking faces of the soldiers as they witness his nudity and his wantonness and perversions. 

Pictures coming brazenly in front of the lot of them, just from Boris’s fingers jabbing at his prostate and his hand heavy and hot and firm on his neck. 

_Oh fuck._

_Boris, Boris, Boris,_ he thinks, as he thrusts desperately into his hand, his grip punishing. 

_Oh Boris, fuck, you’re… You’re going to make me… You’re going to make me come in front of everyone…_

His orgasm shudders through him, shoots all over his hand for the second time in a few hours. He comes and comes and he shakes with it, making a mess of himself. 

He is still breathing harshly and covered in his own come when Boris thunders into the trailer, slamming the door behind him. 

The big man can be quiet when he wants to be, Valery knows, but this obviously isn’t one of those times. 

Boris paces, looks over at Valery furiously. Sniffs the air in realisation. Glares again. Paces again. 

Paces back over to the trailer door and locks it. 

Sinks down onto his own chair at the side of his own desk. 

Boris’s ill-fitting khaki trousers are impressively tented.

Valery thinks of Boris storming around the outside of the plant giving orders and shouting at people all this time, getting progressively stiffer and stiffer under the fabric.

He wishes he could find some humour or relief in the image, but he can’t.

He wishes he could get hard again himself, but his youth is far behind him and he never exactly had the stamina of a lothario then. His lower body feels numb and exhausted and tingling with pathetic, pleasurable little aftershocks. 

Still, Valery drinks in every detail of Boris, sat there flushed and furious and silent and straining up against his trousers. Not even trying to hide it from him. 

It is easily the most erotic thing that Valery has ever seen.

Boris runs a hand through his still-damp hair and lets out a frustrated hiss between his teeth. 

Valery rummages around to find a handkerchief to clean his hand off on, shoving his softened cock back into his khakis.

Boris doesn’t look at him as he frees himself from his trousers. His big erect cock bobs upright into thin air, glistening pink tip looking so ridiculous and proud. 

Valery licks his lips, tasting his dried blood from where he bit himself earlier.

That had been Boris’s fault too. 

He gets up from behind his desk with a loud scrape of his chair. 

Boris still doesn’t look at him. He is looking down at himself in apparent astonishment as he strokes one large hand down his bared, weeping cock. 

Valery finds him utterly infuriating. 

He keeps on moving towards him. 

He’d like to tell Boris _thank you_.

For not drawing attention to his embarrassing predicament earlier.

For not reporting him.

For not hating him.

For shielding him.

For always instinctively protecting him, right from the start.

He’d like to tell Boris that he’s never been as viscerally, whole-body aware-of and whole-body irritated-by another human being before.

He’d like to tell him that he wakes up each morning here in this sad ghost town with his lips already forming the name Boris, with his mind already coming up with the next snippy retort to throw at him, with his nose already anticipating the distinct, expensive smell of Boris’s aftershave.

Valery would like to tell him these things, but, of course, he can’t.

He can’t say anything.

Can’t make any sounds at all.

And he probably never will be able to.

So he goes down on his creaky knees in front of Boris instead, who does not look at all surprised by this, only relieved, resigned, accepting, impatient.

And even this is its own kind of irritant, but it only makes Valery quicker in his movements, as he takes Boris’s thick, hard cock into his salivating mouth, clumsy from his lack of practice.

His tongue aches as he swirls it eagerly around Boris’s straining length.

There is no expensive aftershave smell now, only harsh decontamination soap, the rank stale smell of the trailer, and the clean smell of Boris’s groin in Valery’s face. His tongue swirls again, tasting velvety skin and heat.

Valery is enjoying himself immensely.

He is glad that he is sated and feels no real sense of urgency. Gratified by the way that Boris’s large, white knuckled hands are gripping the chair he sits on, digging into the wood as if he could splinter it with all of his brute strength.

Valery has always been struck by Boris’s aura of physicality, projected like a wall of steel around him.

He can feel the strength in the aged limbs now, as Boris carefully restrains his clothed thighs from bucking upwards and forcing his cock deeper into Valery’s waiting mouth.

The big man is trembling all over with restraint. Boris’s mouth is rigid and taut with the effort of staying silent, his handsome face pulled into a mild frown, his eyes closed.

Valery can hear the noises he thinks Boris would make, all the same, just as clearly as if Boris _was_ making them.

Valery loves him so much he feels sick with it, and when this extraordinary, illicit, snatched moment has passed, he will make himself forget that realisation, just in order to survive. 

His tongue plays with Boris’s foreskin, collecting liquid from the slit. His mouth forms a perfect round ‘O’ and he slides his flushed face up and down Boris’s cock, the girth making his mandibles ache. Valery forms a tight seal with his chapped lips and sucks and sucks and he can never quite get Boris as deep as he wants him. 

It has been so long since Valery did this. Boris’s cock bumps the back of his throat, hurts. He doesn’t remember how to swallow around someone, thinks maybe he managed it once or twice, back in the dim and distant past. He doesn’t want to gag or to have to pull off Boris even for a moment, so he doesn’t try it.

Boris’s immensely large, strong hands are in his hair now, tugging gently, making his scalp tingle. 

Boris is gently guiding Valery’s head up and down his own cock, increasing their pace. Boris is gently, so gently, fucking his face.

(Valery loves him.)

His hands on Boris’s muscular thighs are like claws. 

Boris draws his shaft all the way back to touch the tip of his cock to Valery’s lips. Pushes himself back in, all the way he can go. Pulls back again. 

Valery gently cups and strokes over Boris’s heavy scrotum, and Boris makes an aborted little sound, somewhere between a gasp and a sob. 

(Valery loves him.)

His tongue swirls around the thick length in his mouth. He laps eagerly at Boris as his hand continues to caress his balls, feeling the pulse pounding at the base, his other hand still squeezing at Boris’s thigh.

Boris makes an impossibly quiet grumble of warning. 

Eagerly, Valery plunges his lips down again and again until Boris is coming in his mouth.

He pulls his lips back only enough that he can swallow down every mouthful of semen that comes spurting out of Boris. 

He loves him. In another few moments, he will have to forget that, but for now it is literally all he feels.

Boris barely gives himself two or three shuddering breaths to recover before he is pulling Valery up by the shoulders and situating him in his lap. Before he is kissing Valery for the first time, slow and deep and messy and tasting of his own come.

Valery loves him. 

Kisses him back so tenderly, so fiercely, so tiredly, so quietly. 

Runs his hands through Boris’s lovely silvery hair. Traces the outlines of his ears with his fingertips. 

There is every chance that this will be their only time.

Valery tries desperately to memorise the feel of Boris’s lips against his, cradling his jaw in his hands. 

There is a tear running down one side of Boris’s nose. Valery kisses it away.

Boris is rubbing lazy circles on Valery’s lower back, every now and then circling low enough to grab a handful of Valery’s round behind through his scratchy fatigues. 

Valery would prefer to die now, like this, if he was given a choice in such matters.

But he has no choice. And there’s so much work to be done.

They stay like that, in silence, until there is a telltale crunching of the irradiated gravel that surrounds the trailer.

The car has arrived to take them back to town for the night. 

They don’t say anything. 

Just tuck themselves back in and clean themselves up and straighten themselves out. 

And go. 

*****


End file.
